An Evening with Jack Shaftoe

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“What? Him, over there, with the hair, and the eyes, and the... additionals?”

“That’s the one. Ain’t he fine?”

He is. Jack’d like to say that he isn’t, but he is. He’s the best-looking bloke Jack’s ever seen in his life, if he’s honest; and right now his pounding blood’s feeling very very honest.

Honest enough to present him with a picture of what might happen, how it might transpire. Him and this Jamie and his picturesque captain. Bare limbs and sun-warmed skin and muscles and hands and arms and those two mouths, making their way across Jack’s body, and...

“No,” he mumbles, and shivers. Too much. Far too much. And what’s more, mightn’t this be some sort of crazy trap? Why, of course it is! ’Cause why on God’s green earth would the lad want to take on two men at the same time, two men who might hold him down and fuck him? Ain’t it more likely that the two of ‘em would lull Jack into some false sense of pleasure-blind security and then carry out some horrid piratical business on his person, theft or rape or bodily harm most grievous?

Fuck that. Tempting it might be, to misbehave with this lithe and lascivious creature, but it’s not worth a beating.

“No,” says Jack again, and lurches to his feet. “An’ I’m off. You c’n trap some other poor fool; I’m not so gormless as all that, mate.”

Jamie’s mouth’s open in apparent dismay. “Wait, what do you mean? Don’t go! I’m sorry, we needn’t, it was just a stupid wicked thought! Just you’n’me would be a fine thing, it would—oh sit down, do, and—”

But Jack’s pushing his way out of the taproom, desperate for fresh air, horrified by himself.

Goddamn itches. Goddamn Imp. He’s going to have to watch it.

END...

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